


The Way We Break Like Waves

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Leverage AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So they pulled off one of their most successful jobs, but all Enjolras can keep his mind on is Grantaire. Except that once they've sorted that out, he can only manage to keep his hands on Grantaire, which isn't really such a bad thing at all. Something of a Leverage AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way We Break Like Waves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samyazaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/gifts).



> Disclaimers all around.
> 
> For [Samy](), who is a darling, for her prompt "Leverage AU! I don't care how you do it but I'd really, really love an Amis Leverage AU. I love fluff and *really* love smut, but I'm allergic to sad endings, so please no tragedy, character death, or non-con." 
> 
> Happy Holidays, and hopefully there is enough smutty, fluffy dorkishness to make your day here!

Their last job was an absolutely success, and all of them are riding high on it.

He can practically feel it as he walks through the living room of the penthouse he technically owns (it doesn’t seem to matter much to his team, who leave his study and bedroom alone but take over the rest as much as he allows). Bahorel is attempting to teach Jehan how to knit, piles of bulky yarn spilling over the loveseat where they’re curled up, and Combeferre is curled up on the armchair, watching with fascination. Courfeyrac has roped Cosette and Feuilly into making cupcakes – he can smell fresh spearmint from his carefully tended window box of herbs and sees limes, which he just has to trust will come together in some sort of strange, delicious combination. Gavroche isn’t there, because Éponine’s taken him out on some mysterious (but safe, he’d made sure) errand. That leaves Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, and Grantaire curled up on the couch, making puns and comments as they watch a movie.

Grantaire looks up as Enjolras crosses the room, tracking him with thoughtful eyes, and smiles a little. Enjolras nods back, but feels it stick in his brain as he slips out on the balcony, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge. His brow furrows just a little.

The thing is, Enjolras never really expected Grantaire to _stay_.

They didn’t need another hitter, not really, but Bahorel had wanted back-up and said he’d known a guy. Enjolras has never been comfortable with new people he doesn’t really know – he only likes working with people he trusts, especially on jobs like they do these days. It takes him a while to get there.

It was easiest with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, because he’s worked with them on and off for _years_ , ever since he first turned started stirring the waters of grey areas and working outside the system. Courfeyrac is the most talented grifter Enjolras knows – he’s bright, charming, cheerful, warm, and utterly, always, underestimated, and he never pulls or coaxes the secrets out of friends, just leaves them to their business and offers what he can. Combeferre, on the other hand, has a light touch as a thief, and somehow managed for years to maintain what looks like a perfectly normal, bookish lifestyle while liberating and returning old books and fine art and whatever else managed to catch his interest. They’re his closest confidantes and he knows he would be utterly lost without them, too unbalanced without Combeferre and too cold without Courfeyrac. They’re his light and his warmth.

The others, though, always take more time to trust. Enjolras doesn’t know how to trust easily anymore, but when he does, he trusts deeply and loves fiercely, and he hopes that it will never get him into trouble. It won’t, not with his crew, the most loyal and dearest friends that he could ever have asked for.

Grantaire, though, is the newest person to have slipped into that group, to have done it suddenly and surprisingly after the half strange, assessing dance they’ve been doing around one another for _years_.

He’s… bewildering. He’s short and rather stocky and while he’s a powerhouse of force when he wants to be, he’s also incredibly graceful. He’s a hitter who codeswitches as well and quickly as a grifter and has the touch of an artist, who knows more about any given subject then anyone should. For the longest time, Enjolras was certain he was hiding something, but, no, he’s just that much of a bundle of contradictions.

Enjolras probably would have been happy to see him go after that first job, to be honest, but he’d gotten on very well with the rest of them. Not just Bahorel, who he’d apparently worked with before, but with Feuilly, and, surprisingly Combeferre. But he also got along with Éponine (who he apparently _also_ knew), and with Cosette, when she joined them at the end. And, of course, he’d fallen into almost disturbingly good synch with Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly.

The thing was, while Musichetta was perhaps the most sociable thief Enjolras had ever met, and Bossuet liked more or less everyone, and Joly’s charm wasn’t just manufactured for his grifting, they didn’t often _take_ to people. The last time had been, well, Joly himself, when Bossuet and Musichetta had taken an instant liking to him. It had been reason enough to bring Grantaire on for one more job.

Except now he’s a permanent part of their team, and Enjolras… still doesn’t know what to make of him. Or, as Combeferre gently points out and Courfeyrac is too kind to say, he _does_ know what he makes of Grantaire. He _likes_ Grantaire, unexpectedly. Likes his cleverness and his jokes and his wordplay, and the way that his mouth curls up and his eyes spark when he genuinely smiles at Enjolras’ silly little puns, and the rough tangle of his shaggy curls.

There’s always something to _discover_ , with Grantaire. He speaks French, of course, but also English and Spanish and Filipino and Basque and knows a little Latin, a little Greek. He can do an amazing, natural sounding alto falsetto, dropping into as easily as breathing. He can cook and he used to forge paintings and he smiles over Enjolras’ little herb plants with softness in his eyes and fingertips.

Enjolras wants to hold his hand. Or kiss him. Or date him. Or fuck him over the conference table. Or all of the above. The problem, really, is that he doesn’t know what Grantaire thinks of _him_.

Well, alright, he knows Grantaire is attracted to him, with the way his eyes focus and track him, and that he cares, with the way he softens sometimes when they speak. He knows, because Grantaire has said before, that he believes in Enjolras. Grantaire used to watch Enjolras with awe and admiration when he spoken with conviction when they first met, and worry and wonder when Enjolras masterminded their most daring job yet a year before, and now… he watches Enjolras like a person, and Enjolras doesn’t know what that means or what’s left between them.

He shouldn’t worry about this. Enjolras has a million more important things to think about, like what they’ll be doing next, or what to do about Marius (half in and half out of their circle), or how to make sure that Gavroche has other options when he’s an adult, or whether any of their marks will be searching them down, or if he’s doing enough with the wealth he’s accumulated accidentally in his own right.

Instead, he _wants_. Oh, how he wants, with an ache and a breaking that he’s never known. He would be lost without Courfeyrac and Combeferre, would be lonely and cold without the team he loves with all his heart, but he wants, itches, to reach out and offer his hand to Grantaire. It’s not something he’s used to wanting at all.

The door to the balcony swings open and it’s nearly dark, the last fading lights of sunset melting into the hazy night glow of Paris, and Grantaire stands in the doorway, framed by soft light and the noise of laughter and chatter from inside. Enjolras glances at his watch and realizes that he’s lost nearly an hour to his contemplation and the cool evening air just as Grantaire slips out and closes the door, folding himself down on the concrete beside Enjolras.

“Hey,” he greets, a little rough, words the same steady slow cadence that reminds Enjolras of the south and home, or near enough. His eyes are shadowed in the night, but his face is half lined and illuminated by what light filters out from the windows. “Usually you sit back and keep an eye on us. Is it alright if I come and keep you company?”

“That’s fine,” Enjolras tells him, angling himself a little to better face Grantaire.

“I know I’m not Courfeyrac or Combeferre, but… is everything okay?” Grantaire asks, almost hesitant. It’s so strange, the way he can veer from grandiose and loud to teasing and sarcastic to tentative and gentle so seamlessly.

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, slumping just a little. He doesn’t usually slump, doesn’t like the way it pulls at his shoulders and makes people realize just how lithe and delicate his frame is. But Grantaire has seen him fluffy haired from sleeping and grumpily staring down his coffeemaker in the mornings, so there is that, at least.

“Everything is fine,” he says, finally. “I’m just thinking.”

Grantaire still looks a little skeptical, but he nods. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Enjolras shakes his head, but he smiles a little. He hesitates a while, trying to decide. What’s worthwhile to risk? How do you read people who don’t like to be read? How do you run risk calculations on a man who defies mathematics? But then, a job gone well and perfectly is a rare thing worth celebration, and there’s always a threat hanging over their heads.

He studies Grantaire a moment, the way he’s just waiting, just giving Enjolras his space.

“Did you know,” Enjolras says, after another moment of quiet, and thinks of all the ways it could be worth it, “I’ve had feelings for you for months now.”

Grantaire startles a little, straightening, and his eyes are _piercing_ on Enjolras before they soften, just a little, almost tentatively, and his head tilts just barely to the side. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Are you still…?”

He laughs, helpless and sweet, his head falling back as he braces himself on his arms, leaning back. Grantaire is just so _physical_ , so full of movement, it’s astounding sometimes, the way Enjolras can read so much into it, even when Grantaire tries not to care. “Fucking hell, Enjolras. If you don’t already know that I adore you, you are _terrible_ at your job.”

“I try not to use my job skills on my friends,” Enjolras replies quietly and a little dryly, and is gratified to see Grantaire’s mouth curve a little at being included in that, finally accepting it after all this time. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“You wouldn’t,” Grantaire agrees, and something in his posture softens and eases even as he keeps looking, searching Enjolras’ face for something. He thinks that, if they’d met when they had met when they were younger, they might have wrecked on one another.

Enjolras isn’t quite certain what he’s looking for, but he has his guesses. “Would you like to date? Whatever it is that means for internationally known criminals with lives like ours.”

“It means whatever we want it to mean,” Grantaire tells him, shifting his weight forward suddenly, propping his arms on his knees and twisting a bit more to look at Enjolras more directly. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about all night?”

He shrugs. “You know I’m never good with these sorts of things. Is that a no?”

“Better than you give yourself credit for, lately,” Grantaire tells him, matter of factly. “That’s a yes. What… boundaries? Limits? What are you comfortable with?”

Enjolras wants to take his hand. He wants to kiss him. He doesn’t dare quite yet. “I’m not sure entirely yet. We need to talk about that, I think, and figure out what will be the most comfortable for the both of us. But, if you're amenable...? That is to say, may I...?"

He fumbles for the words, trying to think of a way to ask that won't set Grantaire on edge. Grantaire can be struck off balance by careless words, and it's something Enjolras has done too often, something he doesn't want to do anymore.

Grantaire takes pity on him and offers his hand out easily, but his smile and his words are shy. "Would you like to find out what's comfortable together?"

Enjolras really would, so he takes his hand without hesitation. He leads the way to his bedroom door at the other end of the long, wide balcony and lets them in, having left it unlocked earlier if he wanted to bypass his beloved by loud friends. Grantaire laughs a little, because he understands.

"I know you know how to sneak back to your own room," Enjolras says, pointedly, but he squeezes his hand gently.

Grantaire just laughs again, blinking when Enjolras turns on the lights. "And Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta's. Actually, I could theoretically get into anyone's. It's a good academic exercise, though I'd be too clumsy not to be noticed."

"Fair enough," Enjolras allows. "May I kiss you?"

"Yeah," Grantaire says. "Yeah, okay."

Enjolras cups Grantaire's jaw in his hand briefly, just holding it there a moment, an intimacy newly permitted, and then leans in to kiss him softly.

It's gentle, exploratory, and Grantaire yields to it instantly. There's something stomach-droppingly, breathtakingly trusting in that, the way he goes vulnerable so quickly under the press of Enjolras' mouth. Still, he kisses back, initiates another when Enjolras pulls away.

They know each other so well, learned sometime Enjolras isn't sure when, because it's effortlessly easy to explore one another and trade slowly deepening kisses. It's... not frantic, certainly, but it's not slow, not gentle and romantic the way that films always seem to show. They know one another and know what they want, and there's a confidence now that's been missing between them.

It's hot, the press of their skin together, and the work of long minutes to stir themselves long enough to take off their shirts. Grantaire's breath catches and he stares at Enjolras like he stares at precious works of fine art when his shirt's off, but Enjolras wants to touch. He can feel and see the many reminders of what Grantaire _does_ written over his skin, scars and burn marks and tattoos that have meanings so deep Enjolras doesn't dare try to understand them without a cipher. He's _beautiful_ , in his way, seen in the light like this and letting Enjolras see all there is to him. Enjolras has to wonder how and when he earned such trust, when it built up between them.

Enjolras skims his mouth up the line of Grantaire's neck, lingering under his jaw, feels the heat there and his own breath catches and stutters at the relief to know he's there and real and alive. He half expects to push Grantaire back onto the soft plushness of his bed, but Grantaire is the one who shifts them first, his kisses needy and wanting.

"I'd like to go down on you," he says, looking up at Enjolras with dark, dark eyes. It's sure now, more considerate than uncertain. "May I?"

He nods, tangles his fingers in Grantaire's curls as Grantaire slowly peels off Enjolras' jeans and underwear and presses kisses to bare skin. It's not a tease and it's not worship, but it's adoration and admiration and appreciation. He's _gentle_ , touch soft and attentive, and it means all the more because Grantaire doesn't need to be so careful with Enjolras. It's another reminder that Grantaire, for all his bluster and fierceness, is soft, prefers tenderness to pain, and Enjolras wonders what got him into this world in the first place.

And, fuck, but he lets out a little hum of pleasure when he nuzzles Enjolras' thigh, mouth teasing over the soft skin there and pressing kisses to little folds of unavoidable scars before his fingers scrabble for a condom when Enjolras chokes out that they’re in the bedside drawer, rolling it on in a smooth motion. His _mouth_ , when he drags his tongue up the line of Enjolras' erection, hot and skilled, all reverent and enthusiastic. Grantaire sucks cock with a reverence and a dedication that's nearly surprising, his eyes trained on Enjolras framed by his thick, dark eyelashes. He's a quick study, doesn't miss a twitch of muscle or a hitch of sound, and Enjolras can hardly bear it, the devotion and the attention as much as the _fucking_ feel of it all, his eyes tight shut as his head drops back onto the pillows, and he whines without meaning to, high little noises escaping where he doesn't mean them to.

“Stop,” he murmurs, and Grantaire halts in a moment, drawing back immediately, worry in his features. Enjolras pets his fingers though his curls to soothe him, gentle. “Fuck, you’re _amazing_ , but, if you’re interested, and you don’t have to be, I’d like to fuck you.”

Grantaire makes a punched out sound, his eyes wide and mouth red and wet and open just a little. He blinks a few times, still staring at Enjolras like he’s something amazing. “Oh, god, _please_. Please, please, oh, fuck, yes, I want that.”

He’s adorable and precious and Enjolras wants to kiss him. So he does, and it’s soft and hot and somehow still sweet even if it tastes of latex. That’s okay, because they’re _kissing_ and it’s lovely. And because he can, Enjolras keeps kissing Grantaire while he works the other man’s jeans down and off, and god, he’s even more gorgeous entirely bare and letting out involuntary, breathy sounds.

Enjolras takes that as a challenge, kissing and biting softly at every inch of bare skin he can reach, tugging out another condom and lube to slick his fingers. It’s chilly but not too cold, and Grantaire doesn’t even yelp at his touch. He’s quiet, not what Enjolras would have expected, but he isn’t complaining. The little intakes of breath, the gasps that make him shudder, the way Grantaire bites his lip are endearing and _incredibly_ enticing, and he takes the encouragement for what it is, pinning Grantaire’s hips to the bed as he fingers him open so slowly.

As quiet as he is, Grantaire responds beautifully, rocking back against Enjolras’ fingers, his cheeks flushed high and lovely with need, and he finally, finally moans, and it’s the most goddamn gorgeous sound Enjolras has ever heard, and it sends him frantically grasping for the condom while Grantaire _writhes_ impatiently.

When Enjolras finally presses in, Grantaire takes him so easily, tilting his hips up eagerly as he clings to Enjolras’ shoulders and gasps. And god, it’s the feel of Grantaire’s muscled thighs under his fingers, the way that he shudders and pants, the way he kisses Enjolras fiercely and desperately. Enjolras kisses back, just as desperate, just as _wanting_.

It’s amazing like this. Enjolras always _knows_ the people he has sex with, knows the details about their lives because it’s just one more way to be safe, but this, this is something else, when he has years and years of information built up in the back of his head, when he knows Grantaire so well and is learning him better and more right now, the way that they’re discovering one another all over again. Enjolras manages to get his hand more firmly curled around Grantaire’s cock, stroking in time with the rhythm they’ve managed to settle into as easy as breathing.

Grantaire whines, just a little, kissing Enjolras harder.

“You’re gorgeous,” Enjolras murmurs against Grantaire’s mouth when they break apart, shifting just a little to get an even better angle. And he _is_ , so much more beautiful than he thinks he is, and maybe that’s why he blushes. But he tilts his head to steal another kiss and his back bows, tensing.

Enjolras has categorized Grantaire as well as Grantaire categorized his reactions, and he twists his hand, runs his thumb over the ridge, and feels victorious when Grantaire comes, hard, with a strangled little breathless sound.

It’s not much more than that for Enjolras to follow, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, because he could kiss him _forever_ and not grow tired of it, until they both come down. Enjolras pulls back reluctantly, but rests their sweaty foreheads together for a moment, breathing hard. His fingertips skim the line of Grantaire’s jaw as Grantaire’s rough hand brushes Enjolras’ damp curls back from his face, and Enjolras sighs.

Content and warm and thrilled, Enjolras moves so they can both clean up a little, then tugs Grantaire in against his side as they flop back on the bed.

“So, uh,” Grantaire says, voice rough and husky even though he didn’t so much as cry out once, loose and easy and comfortable. “I think that exploration went well.”

Enjolras smiles, amused, and kisses Grantaire’s shoulder. “I think I could agree. Worth some more in the morning?”

“Absolutely,” Grantaire agrees, but pauses, hesitates, clearly uncertain if he’s welcome to stay.

“Stay the night?” Enjolras asks, making it a quiet and easy an offer as he can, because he hopes, hopes that Grantaire will feel comfortable enough to stay here with him, to preserve this fragile newness a little longer before everyone else knows and things will have to go back to normal.

Grantaire smiles, settles back a little more, his eyes so soft on Enjolras’ it’s almost unbelievable, inexpressible. “I’d like that.”

“Then come here,” Enjolras says simply, because he’s a tactile person when given permission, and Grantaire knows that, and it’s so easy to press himself closer, to revel in the _warmth_ Grantaire gives off. He feels lulled and sleepy and _happy_ , and it’s somehow, wonderfully, terrifyingly sweeter than the job they pulled off the other day. He hums when Grantaire’s arms slide around him. “I want to keep you safe forever. You’re important to me.”

“You’re important to me. To all of us. But how about we keep one another safe? Yeah?” His voice is as soft as his laughter, but he sounds drowsy as well, and there’s so much _trust_ there Enjolras has to wonder how he earned it at all.

“Alright,” he agrees, and kisses Grantaire’s jaw.

“Alright,” Grantaire says and smiles just a little as he kisses Enjolras’ forehead.

Enjolras shifts, pulling the blankets up around them and curling around Grantaire, brushing kisses wherever he can.

“Thank you,” he says, and means it for so many times and so many things, for the way that Grantaire is tucked up warm and sleepy against him, “for staying.”

“Anytime,” Grantaire murmurs, and relaxes back into Enjolras’ hold, presses a kiss to his palm.

And that feels like so much more, too.


End file.
